I did grow up with Michael Landau, my brother since we were 12

Host: The sunset bled through the cracked blinds of an old rehearsal studio. The air smelled of dust, coffee, and amplifier heat. Faded posters of legendary bands clung to the peeling walls, while a single guitar hummed gently from the corner, still vibrating from its last note.

Jack sat on a wooden stool, his fingers tracing the fretboard absently. His eyes, gray and reflective, carried the weight of something unspoken. Across from him, Jeeny leaned against a mic stand, her arms folded, her hair loose, catching the last strands of orange light as if time itself refused to move on.

The room was quiet — the kind of quiet only musicians know: full, aching, and alive with what lingers after the last note dies.

Jeeny: “You know what Steve Lukather once said?” (She smiles faintly.) “‘I did grow up with Michael Landau, my brother since we were 12 years old. That was competition — but in the best way.’”

Jack: (chuckles, tuning the guitar) “Yeah, that’s easy to say when your competition ends up your best friend instead of your ghost.”

Jeeny: “You always turn friendship into a funeral, don’t you?”

Jack: “No. I just know what rivalry does to people. Everyone says competition makes you better. They forget it also makes you lonely.”

Host: The amp light blinked softly, casting a dim red pulse across Jack’s face. Outside, the city murmured faintly — cars, voices, a dog barking in the distance. Inside, the world seemed reduced to breath, string, and silence.

Jeeny: “But Lukather wasn’t talking about ego, Jack. He meant the kind of competition that sharpens you, not destroys you. Two kids pushing each other toward greatness — not out of jealousy, but respect.”

Jack: “Respect’s a fragile thing. It breaks the moment one of you wins. Look at Lennon and McCartney — genius together, broken apart. Same story everywhere: competition turns art into war.”

Jeeny: “But without that tension, you don’t get evolution. You get mediocrity. You need someone beside you — someone good enough to scare you into growing.”

Jack: “And when you outgrow them?”

Jeeny: “Then you honor them. Because you wouldn’t have gotten there without them.”

Host: The rain began to tap gently on the studio’s tin roof, creating a rhythm softer than any drumbeat. Jack paused, listening, his hand hovering above the strings. The sound reminded him of the first garage he ever practiced in — before the shows, before the cynicism, before fame became fatigue.

Jack: “You know, when I was sixteen, there was this kid named Robby. We played the same circuit. He was better. Faster. Every gig felt like a duel. I used to hate him for that.”

Jeeny: “What happened to him?”

Jack: (quietly) “He quit. Said the fire burned out. I kept playing, but… it never felt the same after that. Like part of me was missing.”

Jeeny: “That’s the kind of competition Lukather meant, Jack. Not the kind that makes you want to win — the kind that makes you want to keep playing.”

Host: A flicker of lightning flashed through the window, catching the metallic gleam of the strings. Jack’s eyes softened — a rare, fleeting thing. The air carried the scent of rain, wood, and electricity — an odd blend of nostalgia and pulse.

Jack: “So you think rivalry can be pure?”

Jeeny: “It can, if love’s bigger than pride.”

Jack: “Love doesn’t usually survive a scoreboard.”

Jeeny: “Maybe not in sports. But in art? It does. Think of Picasso and Matisse — rivals to the end, but they wrote to each other like brothers. They understood something deeper: that their art existed in conversation. Like a duet that never ends.”

Jack: (nods slowly) “A duet. That’s what it was for Lukather and Landau.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. They weren’t trying to destroy each other. They were trying to discover each other — through sound, through years of pushing, failing, learning. That’s a kind of love most people never experience.”

Host: The rain intensified, drumming harder now, matching the rhythm of Jack’s heartbeat. He began to play — soft, hesitant notes. Jeeny closed her eyes, listening. The melody was unfinished, but full of memory, the kind that aches because it’s still alive.

Jack: “You ever had that kind of competition, Jeeny?”

Jeeny: (after a pause) “Once. Her name was Clara. In college. We both wrote music. Every time I thought I’d written something beautiful, she’d write something that made me jealous and proud at the same time. We fought, we envied, we adored. And then… she stopped. Moved away. I still hear her chords in my dreams.”

Jack: “Sounds familiar.”

Jeeny: “Because it’s universal. Every artist carries the ghost of someone who made them better.”

Jack: “So what are we supposed to do with those ghosts?”

Jeeny: “Play with them. Keep them alive.”

Host: The lights flickered, the amp hummed, the storm outside became a symphony of its own. Jack’s fingers moved again — smoother now, finding a groove that felt shared. Jeeny began to hum along — low, haunting, wordless. Their sounds intertwined like two rivers meeting midstream.

Jack: (smiling faintly) “You know, I think Lukather and Landau probably understood something I never did. That competition isn’t a war — it’s a dance.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. You take turns leading, but the beauty’s in the movement. The rhythm between two people who refuse to settle.”

Jack: “And when the music stops?”

Jeeny: “You bow. You thank them. Because every note you play after that carries their echo.”

Host: The storm eased, leaving behind a soft, trembling stillness. The floor reflected the faint shimmer of the neon sign outside, spelling “LIVE TONIGHT” in fading blue light. Jack set the guitar down, the final chord hanging in the air like a memory that refused to leave.

Jack: “Maybe I’ve been afraid of admiration. Every time someone was better than me, I called it betrayal instead of a gift.”

Jeeny: “It’s easier to armor yourself than to admit you were inspired.”

Jack: “You always make it sound so simple.”

Jeeny: “It is simple, Jack. Not easy — but simple.”

Host: She walked toward him, her hand brushing the neck of the guitar, her eyes warm with something older than sympathy — understanding. The light dimmed, the rain smell grew faint, and for the first time that night, Jack looked almost at peace.

Jack: “Maybe… I should call Robby. See how he’s doing.”

Jeeny: (smiling) “Do that. Tell him the duet’s not over yet.”

Jack: (half-smiling) “He’ll laugh at that.”

Jeeny: “Then you’ll know he understood.”

Host: The camera pulls back, through the window, into the rain-washed city night. The faint sound of Jack’s guitar rises again — this time not as a solo, but as if another hand were playing beside him, unseen yet perfectly in sync.

Two voices, two souls, two melodies — not in conflict, but in harmony.

And somewhere, as the last note fades, the world feels just a little more alive — because someone, somewhere, still believes that the best kind of rivalry is born not from envy, but from love.